


Blind Alley

by Clocketpatch



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocketpatch/pseuds/Clocketpatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lost young woman finds the solutions to her life in the eyes of a homeless man at the back of a blind alley</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Alley

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if this is the BETA'd version or not, but it seems to be the only version I've got left. This is actually the first fanfic anything I ever wrote.
> 
> * * *

  


Global warming was up to her nefarious tricks again, pulling out half-way through what could have been the mildest winter on record. She sashayed away with her nose in the air, leaving the city defenceless to the natural weather conditions it had forgotten how to deal with over the last fifty years. The city had dismantled most of its plows decades back after a succession of twenty snowless seasons and an assurance from leading meteorologists that it was not likely to snow again. Ever. 

'Just like the weatherman to be wrong,' thought Sister Joyce, shivering as a clump of the white stuff slid down her boot. The few remaining plows were putting up a brave battle with the snow, but it would be days before the roads were cleared. Adults snuggled into their homes away from the cold. Children went outside to make their first-ever snowmen and snowballs and discover the pleasures that would have been their birthright a generation ago, and Sister Joyce was downtown, walking the dune covered sidewalks on a mission of mercy. 

Not every adult in the city could retreat to a nice cozy home or apartment, not every child either for that matter. In the absence of city-run shelters, slashed from the budget around the same time as the snowplows, churches across the city had opened their doors to a cascade of homeless who found themselves as unprepared for the sudden change in climate as everyone else. Except to them the annoyance was deadly, what with death from exposure and all. Now Sister Joyce searched for those who had been too weak, or too insane, or too intoxicated (or all three) to heed the call. 

Thus far her search had been unsuccessful, and as she passed a large drift of snow she shivered at the thought that some drunk old man might be buried beneath it, one never knew. These things happened. She shivered again. 

Strange to think this was the first time she had seen snow. Strange to think it was the first time this city had seen snow in over a score of years. They used to celebrate winter here, she remembered. They would skate on the canal, admire ice sculptures, and sip hot chocolate. 

She shook herself back to her task. She wasn't going to rescue anyone by day dreaming. She wasn't going to rescue anyone traipsing down a main street either. She ducked into an alley. 

The bottom of the by-way, except by the entrance, was bare; the snow kept at guard by an awning flowing out of the brick wall two stories up. She could see from here that it ended in a dead end; another brick wall piled with trash. She took a moment to empty her boot, and, after putting her now snow-free footwear back on, she relished walking across a bit of ground that didn't crackle with every step.

Then she went to investigate the pile of junk. It was mostly the usual stuff: trashcans and cardboard, and something odd: a white hexagonal table-type thing studded with buttons, controls, and burnt out lights. Part of its paneling peeled back to reveal a mess of wires. A low groan redirected her attention. 

A man lay curled around the base of the table thing. He was tall, dressed in some antiquated lace and velvet vest totally unsuited to the temperature, and boasted a head studded with the most ridiculous poof of white wisping hair Sister Joyce had ever seen. 

"Sir?" 

She bent down. He was alive. She could see the little bits of fog escaping his lips with each breath, and he had groaned. She tried to remember her first aid training, but it all seemed to be slipping away. She also put a finger on the call button of small radio she wore at her waist. She could call for help if he turned violent. 

"Sir?" 

His clothes looked expensive, and clean for a homeless person. Sister Joyce ran over possibilities. He could have stumbled home drunk from a costume party and ended up here, but she could smell no alcohol. She thought. Same situation maybe, only he hadn't been drinking, but had been mugged? She started visually surveying him for injuries.

"Jo?" The word slipped out of the man's mouth. His eyes fluttered opened. They were brilliant blue. Sister Joyce jumped back, a bit startled. 

"Sir?" she said for the third time, wondering why she couldn't think of another, more intelligent, question to ask. The man sat up, slowly, a military dog-tag dropping from the neck of his jacket as he did so. He started to stand but seemed to have some trouble with it. Finally he consigned to sit. He seemed to consider his surroundings for a moment before looking pointedly at Sister Joyce. 

"If you would be so kind," he said in a refined British accent, "I wonder if you could tell me the date and the location." 

"It's February 15, the day after Valentine's, and we're in a blind-alley off of Bank. Are you alright? Do you remember how you got here?" 

The man ignored her questions. He rubbed his head and patted his shirt before looking up at Sister Joyce again. He seemed surprised she was still there. 

"Perhaps I should have been more specific. Could you tell me the city and the year?" 

"It's Ottawa, 2057," Sister Joyce said, trying to keep disbelief out of her voice. Either he had one hell of a hang-over or… 

"That's around a ninety year jump," the man mused. "I've never been to Canada before. I am the Doctor." He reached out his hand. 

Sister Joyce reconsidered her story situations — maybe he was insane, delusional at least, possibly schizophrenic, or very, very high. She found her finger creeping towards the call button on her radio again. "Doctor…?"

"Just Doctor," he noted her confusion, and added gently, "it's my sobriquet, though some call me John Smith." 

A picture from an old cartoon movie, of Pocahontas cradling her lover, popped into her head and she nearly laughed out loud. He wanted to be cryptic. Fine. He could be anything he liked as long as he followed her back to the church and warmth, and possibly a psychiatrist if she could convince Mother Rebecca. 

"And what's your name?" the man asked. 

"You can call me Sister Joyce." 

The man chuckled. 

"We both have our sobriquets." 

Sister Joyce didn't know what the word meant, but from the two uses she had a good idea. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably. 

"Come on Sir, I'll help you up. We'll go back to the church. It's nice and warm there. If you've got a home we can call you a cab, and if not you can sleep there tonight, out of the cold. We might have a jacket for you as well." 

"I'm not going back with you," said the man. He tried to stand up again and succeeded this time, though he had to lean heavily against the table thing. "I'm missed elsewhere, and I probably scared my assistant witless when I disappeared. Poor Jo, I can imagine the look on her face." 

If he didn't want to go that was that. She couldn't force someone against their will. That would be against both the laws of the land and the laws of the order she served, but she could damn well try. 

"Sir, we could attempt to contact your friend from the church shelter. You could wait inside until she arrived. You must be freezing in that outfit." 

He ignored her statement and squinted down the length of the alley to the street. 

"Of course, this is the great snowstorm of 2057. The gulfstream is reversing. You'll have more white Christmasses soon." 

"Sir?" 

He moved his gaze to her and studied her like a puzzle. 

"Where do you fit in?" he asked. 

Sister Joyce stumbled mentally at the question, but recovered. 

"I was a student, but I found a greater joy. I joined the church and they helped me with my passports and stuff…" her voice wavered for a moment before coming back with an almost cliché strength, "And now I've got meaning in my life and I know that everything works out for a purpose." 

"My dear, it is perfectly acceptable for you not to be honest with the man you found lying half-dead in an alley. it is not acceptable for you to be dishonest with yourself. What do you really want?" 

"I want —" She stopped. Why should she tell this man anything? But he had such an honest face, and those clear blue eyes looked at her. She wanted to tell him everything. She wanted to spill her life story, and cry, and let him comfort her and make it all be all right. She had a sense he was older and younger than he looked. That he could fix anything. Why not her self-induced problems and muddled life? 

"I —" she stopped again. Was she worth it? She suddenly felt very small. He was just an old possibly drunk, possibly crazy man she had found passed out in the back of blind alley, but he was more than that. She knew it. And she knew that he had bigger problems to worry on than the ones she had created herself. 

"Why are you here?" she asked. 

His eyes twinkled. 

"As you already think me insane and possibly inebriated there is no harm in telling. I was working on my TARDIS's counsel, trying to fix the dimensional stabiliser when I accidentally double-reversed the polarity of the neutron flow which caused a spark in the timespace circuits and brought me here. And it was a rather bumpy landing as well. Flying through the vortex without a capsule does not make for a comfortable ride." 

Sister Joyce nodded, though she had no idea what the man had just said. It made sense, almost, and she was in the mood for dreams and the impossible. 

"My dear," he said, taking on that soft paternal voice again, "why are you here?" 

"I flunked and I didn't want to go home. I do want to help people. I thought… I'm not even sure I believe in god. I'd go back, but I'd only fail, and my whole life now is just… sorry." She looked down at the ground. 

"Joyce." She looked up. "You have a whole life ahead of you. Go out and live it full as you please and stop moping about the details. Everything works out in the end. Now…" The man dug his hands into the exposed wiring of the table thing. "a double reversal brought me here. A triple should bring me back. Stand well clear, and don't forget my advice." He twisted his hand, wrenching back and connecting loose cables. An instant later there was a noise and a gust of wind and the strange man disappeared. 

Sister Joyce stared. Nothing was left, except for some indentations in the snow caused by the man and his strange machine. She took a deep breath and returned to the main street. She would go and see if she could find any people who hadn't made it to shelter yet, because she wanted to help people, but as soon as the weather cleared up she would go home. Her name wasn't Joyce, it was Marla, and she was tired of pretending. After all, she had a whole life to get through. 

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=10971>


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